


Monster

by inkfiction



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, well it's redundant angst now i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: And for a few minutes, a few hours Luisa can pretend that that’s it, that it’s just them, just Rose and Luisa, and the shadow of Sin Rostro doesn’t hang above their heads, seeping into everything, every day.
Relationships: Luisa Alver & Rose Solano, Luisa Alver/Rose Solano
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back when season 3 was airing (which was incidentally when I stopped watching jtv). The last scene I saw with Rose and Luisa was when Luisa leaves after they kinda/sorta break-up in the submarine. Hence the angst. Since then it's been languishing in my drive and I thought why not put it up now cause who knows what might happen in the next couple of months. Yes, I sound grim. Yes, I'm terrified. I work at a hospital (dentist) and am daily afraid for me and my family. So I need all the distractions I can get. And y'all really did not need to know this but I've had a panicky morning so I'm babbling. Ignore me.
> 
> _When is a monster not a monster?  
>  Oh, when you love it.  
> Oh, when you used to sing it to sleep.  
> …  
> There is so much to forgive but you do not know how to forget.  
> When is a monster not a monster?  
> Oh, when you are the reason it has become so mangled.  
> —Caitlyn Siehl_

Here, like this, in bed together, for a few minutes or hours, Rose is just Rose.

There’s just the glide of skin on skin, her breath hot on Luisa’s neck, her mouth sweet on Luisa’s mouth, her teeth bruising and marking Luisa’s skin.

There’s only sweat and sticky warmth between them.

Rose’s hooded eyes bright and stormy, like a lighthouse in roiling seas.

Rose’s hair wild, on the pillow, around her face.

Rose’s voice like a soft, lilting lullaby in Luisa’s ears.

Rose’s touch like magic, her hands breaking Luisa apart and then stitching her up again, and again, and again.

There’s just Rose.

_ Her _ Rose.

And for a few minutes, a few hours Luisa can pretend that that’s it, that it’s just them, just Rose and Luisa, and the shadow of Sin Rostro doesn’t hang above their heads, seeping into everything, every day.

For a few minutes or hours Luisa can kiss Rose and almost forget as she lies sated and sleepy in Rose’s arms that these arms that hold her so tight and yet so gentle as if Luisa is a fragile thing, bound to break into pieces any minute, these hands that are so capable of making Luisa come apart in ecstasy and then calming her down until she is lulled into sleep, are the same ones capable of murdering dozens of people. Her own  _ father. _

Because those few minutes or hours eventually pass and then Luisa remembers.

_ Her own father. _

Those are the times panic claws at Luisa’s heart like a monster climbing up her arteries and sitting inside her lungs, hot and heavy like lead, making it hard to breathe, making her rush to the small ensuite and retch and retch and retch, more disgusted with herself than with Rose.

And then there are other days.

Days where the panic that rises, twisting Luisa’s gut and sealing her lungs, is for a different reason, where her heart feels like it would stop and her breaths threaten to spill out into sobs.

Days when Luisa looks at Rose’s still and pale and sleeping face and relives the terror, the pain, the shock of that moment when she had seen that body, that face lifeless and broken on the floor.

Days when Luisa clenches her hands into fists because the urge to reach out and touch every inch of that beloved profile, just to feel the life and warmth flowing in Rose’s veins, under those porcelain cheeks is overwhelming.

Days when Luisa sits rigid and unmoving against the headboard even though she wants to lay her head against Rose’s chest to feel her heartbeat, to put her fingers on Rose’s pulse, just to make sure Rose is still alive.

There are nights Luisa sits in bed just to watch Rose sleep, cataloguing the rhythm of her breathing, cherishing each rise and fall of Rose’s chest.

There are nights when she wants to shake Rose awake just to know that she  _ will _ wake, that she is just sleeping.

There are mornings when Luisa only breathes freely the moment Rose finally opens her eyes and stretches out her hand, seeking Luisa, and, finding her in bed by her side, gives her a sleepy, dopey smile that is worth a hundred thousand  _ I love yous _ in awake terms.

A part of Luisa wants to believe so desperately when Rose says she’s done with the life of crime, that she wants to start over, start a new life with Luisa by her side. A part of Luisa wants to believe in this future, in this possibility, even though the rest of Luisa knows that Rose is lying through her teeth.

So she asks for a list. “Of all the people you’ve murdered.” And, surprisingly, Rose complies. Luisa doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it’s page upon page upon page, and Luisa’s hands shake, the names tremble and blur as her eyes begin to sting. And that’s when she sees Rose, standing in half-light in the doorway, looking beautiful, and terrible, and it scares the crap out of her.

And Luisa knows the exact moment that Rose notices that little jump of terror, because suddenly Rose’s face is completely flat and devoid of emotion.

She gives Luisa the paper on which Rafael’s email is printed and turns to leave, only to turn back around.

“You jumped,” Rose says. “You  _ jumped _ when you saw me standing at the door.”

Luisa can see the genuine pain that darkens Rose’s eyes, knows they have crossed a line they can never cross back, knows that something just broke between them.

“Well,” Rose says, voice heavy, “they say if you love someone, let them go.”

So she lets Luisa go. And in turn, on their last night together, as Rose kneels on the floor, pressing reverent kisses between Luisa’s thighs, Luisa pretends that she doesn’t feel the cool wetness that drips down Rose’s cheeks onto Luisa’s legs.

But Luisa can’t ignore it later, much later, when they lie in each other’s arms, and the dim, yellow ceiling lamps make the droplets shine like stars on Rose’s eyelashes. Luisa’s fingers make a journey of their own accord, tracing the moisture under Rose’s eyes, tucking the wild hair behind Rose’s ear, cupping Rose’s cheek, making Rose sigh, close her eyes and place a soft kiss on Luisa’s thumb that’s lightly caressing Rose’s lower lip.

Time seems to hang heavy between them as it passes. And then:

“I love you,” Rose says when she opens her eyes and stares right into Luisa’s. “I love you, Luisa. I’ve always loved you. I may have lied and killed and cheated but know this, Luisa, that I have never lied to you about us, about the love we share. You are the great love of my life, darling, my one and only, and I know we’re both fucked up, we’re a giant mess, but you have to know this, Luisa, you have to know that I love you!”

“I know,” Luisa says, feeling a hysterical urge to laugh out loud at this Han Solo moment, but she doesn’t. Doesn’t say  _ and I love you back,  _ doesn’t say  _ don’t love me until you ruin me _ , doesn’t say  _ why, if you love me then why did you do all of these terrible, terrible things _ .

Luisa has never, will never ask Rose why she did what she did, because in her worst nightmares, Rose cups Luisa’s face with the gentlest of touches and says,  _ ‘I did it for you.’ _

So Luisa just holds Rose closer, maybe for the last time, and, “I know,” she says as she bends down to kiss her. “I know.”


End file.
